He got his

by

I’ll have to start remembering the actual cross streets for these fun little stories I’ve been dutifully transcribing upon these vaulted pages. This morning I saw a guy at another bus stop (this being different than the previous two) on the south side of Thomas, near about 32nd Street, with a 22 ounce can of something in a paper bag. I can’t imagine you’d choose to enjoy your morning iced tea in a paper sack – I’m thinking liquor of the malt variety. What they call the Master Cylinder. He was trying to light the smallest tail end of a cigarette, the smallest you ever did see, with a series of matches. He would pull one from the book, in a very deliberate manner, as if the entire world rested upon this seemingly simple exercise. And, then he would strike it two or three times, finally get a spark, lean forward toward his cupped hands and puff. I thought he was going to light himself on fire. It was a good show, the scruffy man with his pathetic cigarette and book of matches, resplendent in glory at a city bus stop. He succeeded, finally, drew in a deep breath of that glorious tobacco, leaned back and exhaled his victory to the welcoming sky. Then he took a long swing off that can and smiled. It was the grin of a man tasting success. And I think of him, now, sitting at this desk, and wish him well. We all need a win now and again. And he got his.

by